


To Drive the Cold Winter Away

by Lemon Drop (quercus)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-17
Updated: 2000-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/Lemon%20Drop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exemplum for Jim and Blair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Drive the Cold Winter Away

**Author's Note:**

> _For Bonnie._

The note arrived almost seven months after Laurent's death. Heavy, grainy paper, probably recycled, with strong, spiky handwriting offering condolences on my loss, signed by Blair Sandburg and Jim Ellison. It had found its way from my old Paris address to Trondheim where I now lived. 

I held it to the pale twilight of the northern noon, stroking the textured surface. Laurent used to do that. She could actually read the impressions of writing two and sometimes three pages beneath the original surface. 

At that thought, I tossed the note into the pretty brass urn I use for trash in my study. I didn't want to remember Laurent, her talents and skills, the abilities that never ceased to amaze and delight me. Whoever Sandburg and Ellison were, for whatever reason they wanted to visit me, well, they'd have to find me first. 

To my surprise, another note arrived, only a few weeks later. This one came directly to Trondheim, and was signed only "Blair." The tone, while friendly, was formal, addressing me as "Dear Professor," and using an elevated language more appropriate to journal articles. That gave me an idea and, with only a few minutes of research on the internet, I discovered that, at least at one time, Sandburg had had the right to be called professor himself. That had ended almost a year ago, though, in a stunning display of self-abnegation. And then I knew what he wanted. 

I thought long before I responded. I had never in my life spoken or written about Laurent. Unlike the former Professor Sandburg, I had recognized immediately the risk to Laurent should the wrong person or organization learn about her. 

Tears filled my eyes and my heart seemed to clutch in pain. I took a ragged breath and wiped my face. This was leaping into an abyss of solitude, of glassy shards of isolation, of eternal darkness of spirit. Of an absence of love. 

But I finally wrote Sandburg, a brief note, succinct to the point of discourtesy, and agreed to meet them. In Paris, in two months. In late winter. I had loved spring in Paris: the rainy weather with sudden flashes of a brilliant cold sun. The crumpled ice on the Seine glinting along the golden stone banks. I love the cold now; I live in a cold country, a country of silence and snow. I would return to Paris only in that moment of balance between winter and spring, before the trees would leaf and vainly try to persuade me that life continues. 

I had to see the lawyers eventually; Sandburg and Ellison's visit gave me reason to return to Paris and the lawyers, to deal with the detritus of Laurent's life and her unwanted legacy. To return again to her home, a home she had shared with me. 

When the time finally came, Trondheim was still locked in winter and I hated to leave. Like frostbite thawing, Paris would burn. But I'd promised, and I really did need to deal with the legal mess Laurent had bequeathed me. I owed it to Laurent, I told myself, furious at her for dying, for loving me, for bothering me after she had left me forever. 

And so I waited in the café, sipping café au lait, staring at the Parisians pushing past the window, so different from Americans and Norwegians, so absolutely Parisian in their confident dress and walk. I saw a taxi pull up and two men alight, recognizable as Americans by their clothing and demeanor. The first out was tall and lean, heavily muscled in his arms and thighs, and I saw by the turn of his head that he was examining the crowd around him, cautiously determining its safety. Then a shorter man climbed out, talking animatedly, his short hair curling in the brisk wind. They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking across the boulevard to the Opera House beyond. Then the taller man rested his hand gently on the other's shoulder, who tilted his head back and smiled with such love that I had to look away and bite my lip. 

In a few moments they were in the café, looking around. Without glancing their way, I whispered, "It's me." Immediately, the tall one stood by my side, staring down at me with some hostility. His friend caught up to him and put his hand on his elbow, then gently tugged. They both sat, and we stared at each other. 

Specifically, I stared at the Sentinel. Jim Ellison. I'd seen his picture on the Cascade paper's website, but his presence was more imposing than his photograph. He saw me as a threat. I hid a small smile, though not successfully; he reminded me very strongly of Laurent. She could be a bitch on wheels to anyone whom she found threatening. I had no doubt this man had an equally sharp tongue and quick fist. 

Sandburg broke the silence by introducing himself and Ellison. He put his hand out and, after an awkward few seconds, I shook it. I didn't offer to shake Ellison's, nor did he mine. I felt something. Almost an attraction toward him, but with dark undercurrents. He was dangerous. I longed for Laurent's protective presence at my side. 

Finally, I looked at Sandburg. Blair. He was adorable. If I were still sexually active and twenty years younger, I'd've made a serious play for his attentions. Dark hair lightening to auburn at the tips; a mobile, expressive face with full lips and large eyes. He looked sharp, intelligent, quick. I felt a kinship with him, not surprisingly; we were both Guides. Only he still had a use. 

At that thought I dropped my eyes, but Blair moved suddenly and caught my attention. "Professor Ardmore," he began, but I shook my head. 

"Please, call me Elspeth." He nodded and smiled at me, a full-volume smile that drew one from me. 

"Elspeth. I'm so glad to meet you. I'd heard about you from a friend of a friend and maybe of a friend. But I'm sure you know the connection." 

Now I nodded. "I did a little research. I know about your dissertation." 

My words seemed to hurt both men, and I was sorry I'd been so blunt. Blair's head tipped forward. I remembered seeing on the internet pictures of him with shoulder-length hair, at the fateful last press conference. That gesture would have at one time hidden his face. Beside him, Ellison sat straighter and looked at me coldly. I didn't think he was enjoying his visit to Paris. 

I sighed. "I'm sorry. I can only imagine what a loss that was to you. I just meant that I know you're a Guide, and that Mr. Ellison is a Sentinel. And I know now that Laurent was a Sentinel, too, although I didn't know the term at the time. I got a copy of your master's thesis through interlibrary loan. Everything you said Laurent did that. She could do all that, and more. And I think," I rolled my head back and took a deep breath. "I think maybe I am a Guide. Was. A Guide." 

But what is a Guide without someone to guide, I asked myself. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

Blair looked livelier now, wriggling out of his heavy outer clothes. The waiter came by and I ordered coffee for us. Eventually, Ellison reluctantly shrugged out of his bulky coat, narrowly avoiding colliding with the waiter bearing the tray of cups and large pot of coffee. Once we'd been served, I took a deep drink, enjoying the scent, remembering how much pleasure Laurent had taken in good coffee. I peeked over the rim of my cup and saw Ellison inhaling gustily. Blair smiled at me, and I smiled back. 

"That was very brave, what you did," I said, and he blushed, but Jim looked proudly at his friend and, with a gesture so tender I stopped breathing, softly touched Blair's cheek. Blair lifted his eyes to him and what passed between them glowed as warmly as the fires in Trondheim. Forgive them for being together, I instructed myself firmly. For being alive. 

Finally, Blair asked, "How did you find Laurent?" 

I laughed. I loved telling that story, yet no one had asked since she'd died. I took another sip and then began. "I'd just moved here from Scotland, where I'd spent the last two years studying the Gaelic of the Orkneys. One of my teachers also taught French, so I decided to learn to speak it as well. I could read it, but speaking French " I made an indeterminate hand gesture that Blair seemed to understand completely. 

"I'd only been here a day and was touring the Eiffel Tower when gunshots were fired. If you know France, you'll know that's pretty unusual. By the time everything was over, the American Consulate had representatives down here. I was speaking to one when Laurent came up and demanded to know what I'd been doing during the shooting. 

"There was something about Laurent that immediately caught my attention. Of course, partially that was because she was beautiful. Have you seen a picture of her?" The two men nodded their heads, but I opened my bag anyway and carefully extracted a soft clipping of worn newspaper I'd folded and tucked in there eighteen months earlier. Unfolding it carefully, I spread it out on the tabletop and studied it for a moment, then twisted it so it faced them and pushed it toward them. 

Blair delicately placed one forefinger on the paper and pulled it nearer. He and Jim stared at it intently. I knew what they saw: two women walking toward the camera, the taller carrying a large automatic weapon. The shorter woman me was looking up at her with an expression on her face that could only be called adoring. And the picture told the truth. I adored Laurent. Adored her as I have no other human being. No mother, father, sister, or husband has ever been dearer to me. 

At last Jim lifted his head and looked at me. I read compassion in his eyes, and sorrow. After a few seconds, I could no longer meet his gaze and, to cover my confusion and embarrassment, poured myself more coffee. Finally, Blair said, "You loved her." 

I laughed shortly. "Yeah." But it wasn't funny. It would never be funny, my love for Laurent, nor hers for me. It was just over. 

"Anyway," I finally continued, "the minute we met, I knew this will sound silly but I knew we would. Be together. After reading your thesis, I think I understand why. I think we were fated to meet, to work together, the way you and Jim were." Jim made a sudden movement, as if to contradict me, but said nothing, just glanced at his partner. 

"Whatever the reason, we started working together. She asked the Consulate to take me on as a liaison for Americans in legal trouble, and arranged for my training. Then she refused to work with any other American liaison. We probably worked on one or two cases a week, and saw each other almost every day. We'd meet for lunch, or target practice, or swimming, or just hanging around, drinking coffee and talking. 

"I don't think Laurent had ever had anyone to talk to before, the way she talked to me. Sometimes we'd talk until late at night and walk back to her apartment. Eventually, she asked me to move in with her. We lived together for almost a year." I fell silent, my throat closing in the pain of loss. I looked at Blair's kind face, and whispered, "I miss her." 

He stretched out his hand and took mine. His hands were large and warm, slightly callused, as he cupped mine gently, then patted the back. "I can't imagine," he said, and I heard the sincerity in his deep voice. "I cannot imagine." 

I sniffed and carefully disengaged from his grasp. "I think you probably can," I said mildly, earning another look from Jim. But I do think he could; he and his Sentinel were cops, as Laurent had been, and quite decorated ones. No doubt each day in the field, Blair wondered and worried about losing him. No doubt Jim did the same. 

Sitting back, looking at the two men across from me, I tried to imagine Laurent living past me. She should have; I was eleven years older. Well, twelve, now. I'd just keep getting older. I think that, without me, she would have done fine professionally, just have gone back to her old, silent ways. 

Jim said, "We saw the tape." Blair glared at him, then turned back to me, his expressive face full of pity and sorrow. I nodded, trying to indicate that it was okay, but couldn't speak for a moment. 

When I could, I said, "I have to see a lawyer now. Perhaps we could meet another day." I stood, gathering the clipping and returning it to my wallet, then pulled out a business card. "This has the number where I'll be staying. I should be home tonight around seven. Call me and we'll set up something." 

I left quickly, trying not to hear Blair scolding Jim sotto voce, but I glanced back from the exit where I buttoned my coat and retied my scarf. Jim had his arm around Blair's shoulders, his head down, listening intently to his rapidly-speaking partner. When Blair stopped, Jim turned and kissed his temple, just above his right eyebrow. Blair leaned his head against Jim, and I hurried away, onto the ice-slick sidewalk. 

Two days later we met again, at a restaurant not too far from the Seine, one Laurent and I used to frequent. The maitre d' remembered me and hugged me fondly, then proudly escorted me to his best table. Really, it was Laurent who inspired his affection, I knew that, but I appreciated his gesture. The two men arrived moments later, looking around them at the heavy dark wood and the maroon and gold velvet draperies of the interior. They were charmingly out of place and stunningly American: tanned, fit, in blue jeans and enormous running shoes. Blair wore an earring today, a gold ring woven with silver. 

Jim pulled a chair out for his partner, who laughed but obediently sat, looking up at his friend. They smiled at each other before turning their attention to me. For a heartbeat, I hated them: their pleasure in each other's company, their unity, their utter togetherness. I would never experience that again. There is only one Sentinel per Guide. Blair's thesis never mentioned that, but I knew. I reckoned he knew, too. 

"You saw the tape." Jim blushed and glanced anxiously at Blair, who quietly put his hand on Jim's, then nodded at me. I nodded, too, and looked out the window, at first seeing the chaotic traffic, passing crowds, and dirty mounds of slush glowing blue in the ghostly pale sun, but then seeing only that summer morning. 

A news crew had videotaped the incident. I'd been there officially, as the American Consulate liaison. At Laurent's side. I barely remembered the reason for our presence; smuggling weapons, I think, certainly there were plenty of weapons, handguns and rifles, at the scene. Hostage negotiation, too. At any rate, I remember helping Laurent strap into the kevlar vest. Shouting at her, begging her not to go in. She calmly pulled on a helmet, snugged the vest a little tighter, then checked her weapon, an H &K 9 mm. Then she looked at me. 

I remember that moment. It is frozen in my heart, my mind. Her blue eyes clear, her face rather stern. She hadn't been pleased by my behavior. I'd put my hands on her waist, a strangely intimate gesture for me to make, just under the lower edge of the vest. She'd been wearing black wool trousers and the wool felt itchy to me. I stared up into her face, finally silent, exhausted by my pleading. She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips and then walked to her death. 

As she turned from me, I'd had the only premonition of my life. I knew she was going to die. I knew this as I knew my name. My heart thundered in my ears and I gasped for breath as if drowning. I'd dashed after her the instant the bullet had struck her head, entering below her left eye. A hollow-point, so it exploded as the force spun her around. My beloved Laurent's blood and brains flew in a wide arc, covering my face and upper body. I tasted her blood on my lips, felt it burn my eyes. 

She fell slowly, back and toward me. I couldn't reach her in time and she hit the pavement hard. Behind me, I heard the other officers begin firing; it sounded like a small war, but I crawled to Laurent and lay on top of her warm body. I couldn't cry; I couldn't shut my eyes. I could only stare at the ruin of her exquisite face. I kissed her and then put my arms around her and held on. 

That's what Jim and Blair had seen in the newscast. That's what all of France and half of Europe had seen, when Paris' most decorated police officer had been killed in the line of duty. The smugglers and most of the hostages had been killed. There'd been a state funeral, and I'd been treated as a widow by the police department and as an unwelcome intruder by Laurent's family. What the family knew that I didn't was that Laurent had left me her entire considerable fortune. Thus my need to return to Paris. 

When I looked back at Jim and Blair, they were studying me cautiously. Blair had blushed a becoming pink and was still holding Jim's hand. Jim's eyes, almost the same pale blue as Laurent's, were narrowed in concern, and his thumb repeatedly stroked the back of Blair's hand. 

"Why are you here?" 

Blair's eyes widened and he glanced at Jim before answering. "When I read about you and Laurent, I thought maybe. You were. Like us." He swallowed. "I wanted to know. I needed to know." 

"We were. Does that help?" 

He looked again at Jim, who stirred slightly in his chair, then repositioned himself so he now held Blair's hand with his right and stretched his left arm across Blair's shoulders. "Elspeth. We are," he huffed a bit, "We're just making this up as we go along. Blair hoped, I hoped, you might be able to help. To tell us something." 

A corner of my mouth curled in a smile, and I shook my head. "You two know much more than we did. I didn't know what we were until I read Blair's thesis. I knew there was something special, but I thought it was just love." 

"Just love," Blair repeated beneath his breath, and I thought perhaps I had told him something he hadn't known. 

I looked again out the window. I'd sat here many times with Laurent. Initially, just to have a warm, neutral place to be with her and then, as my feelings grew, to be in a place known and loved by her. Perhaps Jim and Blair would remember sitting here, too, granting a tiny bit of immortality to her, beyond what I could give her. 

Jim shifted in his seat again, and I smiled to myself, wondering if I could guess why sitting seemed uncomfortable to him today. Finally, I said, "I don't think I can help you. But let me tell you a little about Laurent, because that would give me pleasure. In return, I'll buy you a good lunch. Is that fair?" Both men smiled at me, and I waived the waiter over. He remembered me, too, and after a brief discussion, I asked him to let the chef select our meal. He smiled broadly, and bowed. 

"Laurent grew up among great wealth and privilege, yet she always felt different. Separate. Partly that was because she knew she was lesbian from the time she was a young girl. But after reading your thesis, I think it was also because she realized she really was different. She could hear farther, see farther, than anyone else. Her father seemed pleased by her abilities, but her mother called her a liar and punished her. 

"She got involved in martial arts at a young age; her older brothers taught her some and then she started training. Looking back, she seemed to be destined to be a cop and not the bonne femme her background would have prepared her for. And she was good at everything sports, academics, everything." I closed my eyes briefly. "An extraordinary woman. 

"I never understood why she wanted me. Never. I was older than she, not in good shape. I was an academic, not an athlete. I knew nothing about criminal justice; she held advanced degrees in it. She was beautiful and talented. I'm middle aged and moderate. 

"At the moment we met, she seemed angry to me. At me. Furious, really; I thought she was going to throw me against a wall. The liaison actually stepped between us, I suppose to try to protect me. But she just went around him, straight to me. I always." 

I had to stop for a moment and wipe my eyes. "I've never told anyone these things," I admitted after a moment. "You'll think I'm delusional. But as extraordinary as she was, I always felt that at some level, I was in control." I looked at Blair. "What you wrote about Guides made so much sense to me. I did guide her, although neither of us could have admitted it. To all outward appearances, she was in control and I just tagged along." 

To my surprise, Jim laughed softly, and stroked his Guide's hair. Again, a look passed between them, one I thought I recognized. 

Very hesitantly, his voice pitched low, Blair said, "You were lovers." 

I smiled, and shook my head. "No, not really. She." I could feel my face burn, and said again, "I've never told anyone this. No. She took me to bed once. It was, you'll excuse the pun, a fucking disaster." Jim smiled slightly, but kindly. "We, um, didn't really mesh sexually. But," and I sat up straighter, "we figured out other things to do. Other ways. To love." 

There was a long silence. I played with my coffee cup, a tiny Limoges, shell pink, almost translucent. Laurent had loved the china here. After a while, I said, "I've had two husbands. My second husband was a wonderful human being. He made me feel treasured, which no one else has ever done. But Laurent." I paused again and licked my lips. "Laurent made me feel alive." 

That was all I could say. 

The first course arrived, poached dried baby pears in a delicate brandy and cream sauce on arugula, saved from being a dessert by the dryness of the brandy and the bitterness of the lettuces. We ate with gusto, each course a minor miracle of color and flavor. I watched Jim closely as he experienced the food much as Laurent would have. A profound pleasure for him. The hours passed. 

When the table was cleared except for more coffee and tiny bittersweet chocolates in the shape of roses, Blair turned the discussion to Laurent again. "How did you guide her? Was it difficult?" 

I considered, casting my mind back to moments of confusion as we questioned suspects or ran through filthy alleys. "Rarely," I finally said. "Somehow what I said reached Laurent. No matter how uncertain I might feel or how unclearly I might express myself, she could find something useful in what I said." 

"No," Jim contradicted me, and Blair looked at him surprise. "It was in what you said. Maybe it's genetic, I don't know, but even when you're making it up as you go along, it works. It just reaches inside and speaks to some part of me I can't reach, I can't control, or understand. It isn't me at all. It's you." But I knew he meant Blair, as Blair did. He was beaming, his color high. Jim looked at him and grinned, catlike in his satisfaction. 

Suddenly, Jim looked back at me, serious again. "Did you ever have visions?" 

I felt my eyes widen in surprise. "N-no," I stuttered, "but Laurent did. Why?" I leaned forward. "Do you?" He nodded, and my mouth dropped open in surprise. "Oh my god," I murmured. "She, after we met, she started having these visions or waking dreams, the blue dreams, mes reves bleus, she called them. She would be in Oise, north of Paris, in an enormous chestnut forest. She'd be running along a river, looking for me, calling my name." Jim was staring at me, his mouth open, too. "You've had this dream." 

He nodded, closing his mouth and swallowing. "Blair. I'm always looking for Blair in them." We stared at each other, and then simultaneously turned to Blair, who was studying us. "Why?" 

But Blair would give us no answer. I thought I knew why. In his face, concern creasing his wide brow and tightening his voluptuous mouth, I read the same reason I'd come up with: Fear. Laurent had been afraid of needing me, yet afraid of losing me. Her dream forced her to acknowledge my importance in her life. Yet how could I tell her that? How could Blair tell Jim? 

And Jim, I saw, had his own answer. From what little Laurent had told me, I'd come to believe that she thought she was being punished for not taking better care of me. I felt strongly that Jim was subject to the same fears. "Do you feel compelled to look out for Blair?" I finally asked. Blair started to laugh. 

"Oh, man. Pushing me behind him, shoving me out of the way. Even now that I'm a cop, too, he has to go first into any situation." Jim was blushing furiously. I nodded. I had never been a cop, only Laurent's liaison, but she'd taken seriously her promise to protect me. Her work was dangerous, and so working with her had its concomitant dangers, but I always felt blessed in her presence. Until that final afternoon. 

I bit my lip as I recalled again the shock and terror and disgust of that last moment of our life together. I'd fucking yelled at her. I'd stalked after her in anger and fear. Maybe if I hadn't been there, she wouldn't have drawn their attention and fire. Maybe I'd killed Laurent. 

Jim took my hand, pulling my attention toward him. "It wasn't your fault," he said softly, and tears fell from my eyes as suddenly as death. 

"It was," I whispered, "and when you die, Blair will believe it was his." Shock crossed Jim's handsome features, and he turned quickly to Blair, who looked guilty under his focus. 

"No," Jim told him firmly. "No matter what happens. If we fight and I walk out the loft into an oncoming car, it wouldn't be your fault. But especially if it's in the line of duty. It's what we do, Chief. It's who we are." 

Blair shook his head, his eyes shining. Finally, he said, "The only reason I don't want to go first is that I don't want you to hurt for any reason." Jim put his hand to his mouth, then scrubbed at his face, shaking his head. 

"What is it about you Guides?" he finally said. "Can I ever persuade you otherwise?" 

"No," Blair and I said in unison, and my heart felt freer. Maybe I had killed Laurent, I don't know. But I do know she'd say the same thing Jim had. Get over it, petite soeur. I was going to die anyway. At least I was trying to do good. At least you were at my side. At least it wasn't you. 

"I love you," Blair said intensely, and now Jim's eyes filled with tears. 

"Yeah," he acknowledged. 

I waved to the waiter again, this time to bring the check. "I'm sorry, but I have to get back to the lawyers. I'm meeting with Laurent's family today; they want to buy back some of Laurent's things, and for me to give back the rest." 

"Don't do it," Jim instructed me, and I heard Laurent's voice in his, a soft mezzo soprano blending with his light tenor. "She wanted you to have it. Follow her wishes, Elspeth." 

"Yes, sir," I said lightly, and both men smiled, but Jim knew by my heart rate that I was telling him the truth. Laurent wanted me to keep these things, to use them and profit by them, and I would obey her one final time. We rose from the table and, surprising myself by the gesture, I embraced them both tightly, kissing Blair on his cheek. "Stay in touch?" I asked him, and he smiled his pleasure. "Enjoy Paris," I told Jim, but the smile on his face let me know that he would now. 

I paused again at the exit, taking my coat from the pretty girl and preparing to face the last of a Parisian winter. I turned my head slightly and saw Jim and Blair seated again, sipping yet more coffee, smiling with pleasure at each other. Jim reached over and touched Blair's forehead as if pushing long curls back from his face. Blair tilted his head back and kissed Jim's hand. 

The door opened and a young couple hurried in from the cold, a shock of wind pulling my attention away from the two Americans and back to the moment I had to live in. I was a Guide without a Sentinel, as alone as anyone could ever be. But for Laurent, I would continue. Maybe write her story, now that she couldn't be hurt any more. But certainly I would now speak her name and honor her memory, in whatever ways I could. 


End file.
